2016 01 10
If you find your face in the water well,
pluck feathers from ravens who crack sad jokes
and weave new mask that gives you superpower
to fly over stage where movie stars prance.
After I walk a thousand lonely miles
over waste land with shadow of my fear,
Minerva steps down from Saturnius hill
and gives me rune-bright golden globe of fame.
I stand alone on flat-top pyramid,
basking in glow of full moon, to sing hymn
that calculates how our souls are designed,
one eye staring back at ten thousand eyes.
Ever since Ishtar stood on ziggurat
and sang creation of our universe
people stand on stage before watching crowds
and play roles of gods who died long ago.
After working all day in fields of crops
and workshops, we gather in temple hall
to feast and watch mortal actors wear masks
and play immortal gods before we sleep.
One real Apollo lived centuries ago,
but immortal soul of his character
wakes again in actors who play his role
on temple stage while we drink wine and sing.
Dead people rise again from words on page
and crack from shell of books to live reborn
in Church of Every Hero who once lived
which preserves human history in their plays.
I see each face in Golden Globe of Fame
where tale of every soul who ever lived
waits silent in the sphere of watching eyes
till we conjure them alive with their names.
The endless struggle of our fragile lives
to survive relentless cycling of change
is written in atoms that form our brains
which scatter as dust in air that we breathe.
Within our universal Church of Every Hero
we honor lives of countless unnamed souls
who lived and died on Earth since we first woke
and stood by Lake of Dreams to sing our names.